Largo
by vanhunks
Summary: Kathryn Janeway has dinner in the holodeck with Chakotay. On the sad side. Be warned.


LARGO 

**a story for J/C by**

**vanhunks**

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns Janeway and Chakotay.

**Summary: **Kathryn Janeway has dinner in the holodeck with Chakotay. A story somewhat on the sad side

**LARGO**

The chandelier fanned into five prongs, each fitted with smaller terraced clusters of lights, suspended by its tentacle-like bronze fingers from the ornate ceiling rose - intricately designed by an early seventeenth century French architect in delicate symmetry with the classic mouldings of the ceiling panels and cornices. The architect himself may have lain on the concealed beams with his protruding hand offering purchase to the heavy, magnificent centrepiece above. The muted light, though creating a golden glow of warmth and intimacy, caused shadows to flicker across the walls. The smallest movement created a pas de deux of an unearthly dance - queen and her warrior in eternal bond.

The room reminded strongly of an era long gone, of forgotten grandeur, whereby the desired effect was to instill a sense of richness, a sense of being in another time and place, of sun kings and the vistas of endless green lawns, only to return to the present and be slightly bemused by the splendour and occasion of the place just visited in one's dreams. Only one table was set, its tablecloth almost touching the floor, with two chairs upholstered in heavy earth tone brocade, a mix of colours that synchronised with its surroundings. They were enhanced by the soft glow of light that bathed the room and touched its surfaces - the tables, the chairs, the Sterling silver cutlery, the silver lined rims of the plates and the too shiny glint of crystal glasses.

Kathryn Janeway closed her eyes briefly. The music fitted the period, she thought, or near as correct she could determine. She always did like Vivaldi, and there was nothing better than listening to the _Largo_ from _Spring_ of his famous Four Seasons. It suited her mood, gave her the centering she craved in times of discord. Chord and discord - counterpoint, melody... infinite spirals in perfect harmony.

"It's a beautiful room, Kathryn," Chakotay said. "I'm amazed that you always create these unique surroundings for our dinners. This room...Where - ?"

"The main dining room of the Astoria, late twenty first century Earth..."

"But the furnishings, the architecture... It's earlier, I take it."

"A replica of the dining hall of a seventeenth century chateau in France."

"It's beautiful. You are beautiful tonight."

"Thank you," she said, leaning forward to touch his hand briefly. Her touch was light as a butterfly's, as if it could only have been imagined. The waiter, in starched shirt, white cravat and tails, arrived with a bottle of wine. Kathryn glanced up quickly, nodded to him, then faced her companion again. "I hope you don't mind. I ordered Picard Shiraz."

"I'll try my best to do justice to your choice tonight, Kathryn," Chakotay replied, his features creasing as he smiled.

Emile's facial expression and hand movements as he poured their wine reminded Kathryn of Pierrot, the white-faced, sad, satirical, dramatic clown. Even the cravat looked like a ruffled collar. All that was missing was a lone tear frozen on the stiff white cheek of the clown. The golden liquid tumbled into the tilted Waterford, creating young waves that crashed against the smooth walls of the glass until they stilled into a sea of calm. Kathryn grimaced at the jaundiced look Emile gave Chakotay, making a mental note to replace him at her next dinner invitation. She raised her glass, staring through the liquid at him. Another grimace as Chakotay's face changed in the prismatic distortion of the crystal, the smile looking lop-sided, his features grotesque - lips pulled away from his teeth, giving him an eerie, death-like form, like one who had shown extreme, irrational terror in the moments before death. Quickly she positioned her glass so that he came into real view again, giving a relieved sigh.

"To the last thirty years on Voyager," she said softly.

"And the month we still have to travel to Earth."

"It's almost over..."

"Then you can finally find rest."

"Not without you, Chakotay."

A quiet descended around them. The music had changed - the _Adagio molto_ from _Autumn._ Falling leaves...golden brown leaves, at their most beautiful as they tumbled and swayed slowly to earth in their dying moments. She remembered a thousand dinners like this one, images of a thousand species and a thousand worlds they discovered, tamed, challenged, feared, hated, researched, respected, protected. And all the time she pictured him, sturdy, wholesome, always waiting for her, always by her side, always just...there. Her eyes felt warm tonight, her heart heavy like the chandelier which seemed to hover above her. She didn't want to meet Chakotay's gaze. He had hardly lifted his glass again, while she had taken a sip of her wine and rolled it delicately on her tongue, inhaling its bouquet even as its hint of cinnamon awakened new images of her late grandmother, buried at Indiana.

Tonight she felt lethargic, yet her heart would skip a beat when she did glance furtively at Chakotay, or became aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the great room, as if she were trying to run ahead of time to emerge victorious at the end. Her words drifted about the table, then moved away as they lost their momentum - like the golden leaves of autumn floating effortlessly to the floor. Perhaps she had reached a point where it didn't matter anymore, or perhaps their conversation had become stilted over the years and it was no more a source of abject concern. She had learned to be patient with him, to wait until he spoke, even as her words were profound in their veiled meanings.

Emile had returned in the meantime, making a great display of placing her food before her.

"Thank you...Pierrot..."

Emile gave her a disgusted look as he stood back.

The presentation - grilled fillet of sole in lemon parsley butter garnished with a single thin ring of pineapple and rosemary leaves evenly arranged around its circular edge. It lay bathed in a strange, bluish tinged sauce which he had concocted and told her it represented the sea. It looked too good to eat, she thought.

_In minutes this will be gone from the plate..._

As always, Caesar's salad for Chakotay. She smiled to herself. No wonder Emile had given Chakotay his Pierrot look.

"Kathryn, you know I -"

"You're here."

It was all that she needed to say. Words heavy with meaning, yet unvarnished, unchallenged in their succinctness by lofty exclamations of devotion.

She thought she heard him sigh. When she looked at him, this time without the prismatic distraction of her Waterford and wine, he smiled. Emile had served his food, but Chakotay's hands remained hidden behind the façade of the table cloth. His hair looked as shiny black as it had when he came aboard Voyager. Even after thirty years, his dimples remained as defined as they had been since the beginning. Smiling a little edgily, she took up her glass again.

"I am married, Kathryn."

She hadn't expected the statement to be so forthright, but she understood. This time it was Chakotay who established the faint lines and boundaries. No interruptions, no reference to ties that bound him elsewhere, no prisms, no prisons...

"Please, let us enjoy this like we've always done every month for thirty years..."

"It's our last on Voyager. I'm happy for you, Kathryn. We're almost home..."

"Yes...home..."

It was quiet as they continued their meal. When Kathryn looked up, she gave a small cry. For a moment she thought he had left.

"I'm here," she heard him say. Relief swamped her. This time she didn't mind when his face was again distorted by the crystal.

"I'm glad, then. Very, very glad. You hear that music?"

"Yes. From the same suite?"

"The _largo_ from Vivaldi's _Winter..._"

"Winter. You never liked winter."

"I do now. I'm looking forward to it."

Kathryn leaned back against the chair and closed her eyes. She heard the clock tick, inexorably synchronising with the rhythm of her heartbeat. Perhaps, she thought absently, it was the other way round. The clock listened to her heart. Chakotay's voice seemed to travel across the table, making its way to her through the fog of her memory. Distinct, yet indistinct. Did Pierrot sit opposite her now?

Was she drifting away from him? The early lethargy she felt, now heavier, soaked into her body. Limp fingers released the glass. Her head dropped to one side.

Thousands of voices... Once she had been assimilated. She heard them - old voices, new voices, fear...fear...fear... She understood the irony. Sighing, she reached for them, the thousands, the one...

Kathryn...

Kathryn...

Kathryn...

The two men who stood in the Astoria next to Kathryn Janeway's chair hardly noticed the grandeur of the room, its ambience of old world refinement. Soft music filled the air, plain like a dirge the lonely violin, pitched thinly with its sad melody. The doctor tilted his head in the way he always had when running his programme. Tom Paris frowned, a question in his eyes.

"_Largo_ from Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_... The finale, _Winter_..."

"How long?"

"She died an hour ago," said the Doctor as he completed his scan.

"There's nothing you can do for her? Revive her like you did B'Elanna and Neelix and Seven and Harry?" Tom asked in a voice that rasped.

The EMH looked up at him.

"What would be the point, Mr Paris? Captain Janeway's heart stopped. Were I to raise her from the dead as you desire, she would continue this...illusion."

Tom Paris looked at his Captain, studied the wrinkled features so peaceful in death. Her hair had long ago turned almost white. Her dress - a favourite burgundy she wore on every dinner date - sagged on her body. If anything, she had lost more weight in the last years than gaining anything. The crew knew. The crew understood; they pitied their Captain more than they admired her the past years. Most of them had lived more than half their lives on Voyager and had witnessed her gradual decline.

The Doctor was right. They couldn't continue seeing her like this - images of a lonely woman who walked the corridors of Voyager in her burgundy dress, making her way to the holodeck. B'Elanna had been furious when he agreed to the Captain's request. The crew had been concerned. In the beginning they protested gently, then gave up, indulging their Captain for she was, of all of them, the loneliest person on Voyager.

"I...understand, Doc. We're so close to home too."

"Yes. One month from now we will be docking at Earth's orbital station. The end of our journey. After so long, so many battles and struggles and triumphs. Now this - bringing a dead Captain home."

"But you're right. When Seven of Nine died, she could deal with the loss of someone she nurtured."

Tom bent over the still body of Kathryn Janeway, her head reclining on her shoulder, slightly forward so that her eyes were almost shielded from view by her hair that had fallen forward. Gently he placed his hands over them and closed her eyes. Then he noticed something. Intrigued, he held the old watch on the palm of his hand, with the fob chain still around her neck.

"The watch Commander Chakotay gave her twenty five years ago, on her birthday."

"But Captain Janeway couldn't deal with the loss of her beloved first officer," the EMH continued Tom's words reflectively.

"Chakotay's hologram degraded over the years, as well as his dialogue subroutines. I thought if I could wean her off..." Tom felt a twinge of guilt and shook his head.

"You did the right thing, Mr Paris. I think Captain Janeway knew this was her last dinner. She had never worn the watch before."

Tom Paris looked at the table with its pristine table cloth, the shiny silver cutlery, the crystal glasses, the untouched wine opposite her. Tonight, he knew, there was no Chakotay. Opposite her sat, with his head tilted in sad contemplation of life, the white-faced clown, with a tear running down his cheek.

The programme never registered the presence of the hologram.

"I did not delete the commander's hologram, Doctor. Captain Janeway had a lonely dinner. A dinner for one."

"No, with Pierrot..." the doctor corrected, thoughtful.

Long minutes they stood there, each one reflecting on what Kathryn Janeway had done for them, had meant to them over the years. The doctor remembered their friendship, the times she had come to him for advice, or company, reading "La Vita Nuova" together.

Tom Paris remembered the feisty woman with brilliant golden hair which the sun behind her seemed to light up as she stood on the rise of the New Zealand Penal Colony and introduced herself to him. He remembered how she bartered for his freedom, how angry he had been in the beginning, blaming the world for his woes. He remembered how she refused to bail on him, giving him her trust, her understanding, her love.

He made a vow. They would bury her at Indiana. There would be an inscription on the gravestone.

"Here lies a noble warrior."

_O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, _

_The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, _

_The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, _

_While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; _

_But O heart! heart! heart! _

_O the bleeding drops of red, _

_Where on the deck my Captain lies, _

_Fallen cold and dead. _

- Walt Whitman

end

**vanhunks**

**September 2004**


End file.
